Our Bodies, Possessed by Light
by alternatedunham
Summary: Set after 2x13. Following his brush with death, Peter reevaluates his relationship with Olivia; "She hesitates, but presses her lips to his again, slipping her arms around his neck. He finds her waist and they're pressed together in her doorway, wrapped up in each other, cold winter air against their warm bodies." Written for the anniversary of the series finale.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I know, I know, this was supposed to be posted on Saturday. But midterms + life = an extremely busy and somewhat disgruntled Ellie. Oops? Anybody who's read my stuff before knows my less-than-stellar updating habits. I'm really hoping to turn that around with this fic __and the _Castle _fic that I'm working on with another author in the fandom._

_Confession time: this was originally supposed to be something else, but my friend Maddie was feeling pretty down, and I just had to write this for her. This'll probably end up being decently long, unlike the one-shot I posted a few days ago. Sound good? Good._

_Disclaimer: Olivia Dunham and Peter Bishop don't belong to me, _Fringe_ doesn't belong to me, etcetera, etcetera. You know the drill.__  
><em>

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><p>When she answers the door, hair tied up casually and pajamas on, the painful knot in his chest loosens. She's okay. They're both okay. Crises have been averted; car crashes and deadly viruses can't hold back fringe division. That's what he tells himself, over and over.<p>

"Hey," he says, expertly faking a charming smile, masking his breathless relief. He's never told her, never told anyone, but memories of her "accident" still float around the forefront of his mind. Terrible images of Olivia Dunham lying motionless and broken in a hospital bed, eyes closed, looking so deceptively serene. And after today -

A smile from her, just hearing her voice, they're everything. Her heart's beating and his heart's beating and it's kind of miraculous.

_Say something, Peter._

"How are you doing?"

_Idiot._

"Shouldn't I be asking you that?" The corners of her lips quirk up, but she seems exhausted.

He shakes his head slightly. "I barely remember being infected. Just an overwhelming need to get outside. And you, trying to help me. And everyone else in the building, of course."

Her expression softens, becomes more sincere.

"I'm fine, Peter."

She's so _real_, a stark contrast to his most recent line of work, an anchor. Tethering him. He's just starting to realize how much he's needed that.

He steps closer and, like the reckless moron he is, kisses her. It's a bad idea, beyond a bad idea, and she isn't reciprocating, isn't reacting. He can almost hear the doubts running through her mind. A thought enters his: _Some genius_ -

That's when she kisses him back, and it wipes his mind utterly blank, gloriously blank. It's only her, only Olivia, living, breathing, wondrous Olivia, her fingers drifting up to his face to cradle his cheeks. They've never been this close - physically - and he's not exactly sure where his hands are or what they're doing but she feels so_good_ that he can't bring himself to worry over minor details.

Of course, the moment doesn't last too long. She breaks the kiss, but stays only inches from him, and looks up at him with those lovely, troubled eyes, doesn't move her hands.

"No more worrying," he says, low and soft. "I think we've already done enough of that today."

She hesitates, but presses her lips to his again, slipping her arms around his neck. He finds her waist and they're pressed together in her doorway, wrapped up in each other, cold winter air against their warm bodies.

No more worrying.

Even as a child, Peter was intensely solitary. He was always well aware of this character flaw, and was sure he would always be like that, which didn't bother him too much. Not when the people that he encountered were who they were, crooked and selfish like himself. But Olivia is different from them, different from anyone he's ever met or known, strong and selfless and lion-hearted. She took him away from his self-inflicted isolation and gave him a family. And now he's kissing her and it feels completely _right_and maybe he does belong in Massachusetts after all.

* * *

><p>The next morning, he wakes first, and tugs the covers tighter around them (December isn't the most comfortable time to be sleeping naked). Her cheek rests against his shoulder blade, stomach to his back, her legs tangled in his. He can't help but smile; waking up with Olivia Dunham cuddled up to you is hardly the worst thing in the world.<p>

After a still, blissful moment, Olivia stirs, waking, and then presses a kiss to the space behind his ear.

"Good morning," she murmurs.

He turns over, hovering above her, faces inches apart. She kisses him, arms winding around his neck as they did the night before, and then moves from his mouth to his neck. His fingertips skim her sides, her hips, lingering and teasing.

Eventually, when their morning greeting comes to an end, they make their way out of bed and pull on clothes. Well, just underwear, really. Olivia, over her bra, also dons Peter's shirt, rolling up the sleeves so they don't obscure her hands. They traipse out to the kitchen and scour the cabinets for viable breakfast food, a formidable task in the Dunham household. With Rachel and Ella out of the house, as they had been since yesterday, they didn't have to worry about modesty or explanations. All by themselves, there's no awkwardness or weirdness, just an unprecedented naturalness, as if simple domesticity has somehow always been their fate.

"You know," she says, smiling, flipping a pancake, "I could get used to this."

He kisses her temple and discretely drops some chocolate chips into the batter she just poured, a second pancake. She raises an eyebrow at him.

"They're completely essential," he deadpans. "You should know this, Olivia."

She rolls her eyes, not even trying to pretend she's anything but amused, and he grins at her.

"You really are Walter's son, aren't you?"

"Hey, now, no need to be rude, Liv."

"Liv?"

He shrugs.

They make scrambled eggs too, and a pot of coffee, and then sit down at the table. Her legs end up across his lap and she laughs when he tells a dumb joke and she's never felt quite so unadulteratedly happy.

It's almost like being under a spell, and when Olivia's sister and niece return home early, the spell's broken. Olivia can only blush and tug the hem of Peter's shirt to hide as much as possible.

"Why are you guys in your undies?" Ella asks, innocently bewildered. Upon noticing the pancakes and eggs, she adds, "Why are you eating breakfast in your undies?"

"Go play, El," Rachel says, smirking knowingly at Olivia.

Ella - albeit confusedly - obliges.

"So, you two are together now," Rachel says, leaning against the counter.

The older Dunham considers that briefly; she's never taken relationships lightly, romantic or platonic. Her (understandable) distrust of people usually overpowers her loneliness, a protective and defensive instinct. Usually.

"Yeah," Olivia replies easily. "We are. What's your point, Rach?"

"Nothing." Rachel tilts her head slightly, sister-speak for _Sassy this morning, aren't we?_ "You two are cute, that's all."

"Cute," Peter echoes, a hand on Olivia's leg, thumb almost distractedly caressing her ankle bone. "You know, most of my ex-girlfriends described me as a puppy at least once. I'm sensing a pattern here. Maybe it's the eyes."

"Yeah, because irritated snarking is adorable," Olivia teases.

"Are you complaining, Agent?" He raises an eyebrow, so damn confident that she has no choice but to tug her chair closer to his and pulls him into a kiss. Rachel fakes a disgusted face and throws a chocolate chip, the bag of which was left out by the lovebirds.

Olivia can't not laugh, threading her fingers through Peter's, reveling in this. The freedom she has, something she never had with John, which she previously thought she enjoyed. She doesn't have to hide Peter away, doesn't want to. For once, she has no desire to locked things up. She approaches anything not work-related like she's about to maneuver a field of broken glass; delicate steps, thudding heart, unshakable reluctance. But not with this. Not today, anyway.

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><p><em>AN: Well, I hope you all enjoyed my uncharacteristic delve into fluff. Angst to follow, of course. We all know Peter has some magical ability to get Olivia Dunham pregnant very quickly, and that's gonna be fun to play with, considering we're in mid-season two territory. :)_

_-Ellie_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I am so, so sorry that this is so late! I went through a really rough patch in early February and recovering from that took up most of energy. But I'm back and, hopefully, better than ever. For all the fluffiness in the previous, there's gonna lots of super fun angst coming up (fun for me, anyway), though not necessarily in this chapter. It's kinda short and transition-y._

_Disclaimer: Not mine. Duh._

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><p>Peter and Olivia aren't exactly the type to acknowledge monthly anniversaries of their relationship; neither have ever been known for being sentimental. Plus, after just four weeks, it'd be kind of (read: very) silly to rejoice over the 'milestone.' He does make her breakfast, though, and brings the plates to the bedroom. As soon as he sits down on the mattress, her eyes open, Olivia being an insanely light sleeper and all.<p>

"Breakfast in bed? What's the occasion?" is the first thing she says, noticing the pancakes and scrambled eggs.

"No occasion," he lies, because, really, it's not an _occasion_. It's just a date on a calendar. "Just thought I'd surprise my wonderful girlfriend."

"Let me know if she ends up being surprised," she deadpans, pushing herself into a sitting position against the pillow.

"Will do." He hands her one of the plates, which she takes, smiling, and he climbs back under the covers next to her.

"Wait," she says, and he looks up at her. "Is the occasion Walter _and_ our job both letting us sleep in?"

He laughs. "That's exactly it."

"Sounds like a good enough reason to celebrate for me," she says, and then pulls his mouth to hers. Even at seven o'clock in the morning, kissing her is nothing short of absolutely fantastic. Maybe someday that will wear off. Probably not.

When they finish eating, they clean up and load the dishwasher, and then shower together. Domesticity, for whatever reason, comes easily to them, a routine they didn't know that they'd always known, because it only works with each other.

They're wrapped in towels when Olivia's phone buzzes. Peter hears something about "twenty-five minutes" and there's no doubt about what's coming next. Nothing interrupts a quiet morning quite like gore and death.

"That was Broyles," she tells him as soon as she hangs up.

"I figured," he replies.

"C'mon, let's get dressed."

"Do we have to?"

"You want to go to the crime scene in your underwear?"

"As long as you are too."

She throws his shirt at him.

* * *

><p>When Walter finds out about their relationship (they never went out of their way to conceal it from him, but they never outright told him, either), he insists on making them a special dinner at the Bishop residence, complete with kicking his son out while he prepares. Which leads to a visit from the fire department rather than a meal, something that Peter and Olivia are hardly surprised by.<p>

Two nights later, Walter is supervised while cooking, and the dinner itself isn't too bad. Not because the food isn't good or anything, because it's actually quite delicious. Walter's questions and comments about sex are uncomfortable and leave Olivia tugging, both metaphorically and physically, at her shirt collar.

After they finish eating, Walter hastily throws dishes into the sink, claims that he helped clean up, and then rushes out the door to give them "alone time." They have just enough time to chuckle at Walter's antics before they get called to a crime scene in Worcester.

Walter pouts the entire way there.

* * *

><p>In the week leading up to Valentine's Day, they agree that there's no need to do anything big, like the 'month-iversary' that was mentioned only in passing. Chinese food and a tacky romcom on Netflix is enough for them; both having grown up loners, February fourteenth doesn't mean too much. It's Sunday night and they're wearing pajamas, her legs thrown across his lap, enjoying each other's company. Empty takeouts boxes clutter up her living room table; they're clutching bowls of popcorn now. On screen, a teary-but-beautiful blonde begs her handsome, tortured boyfriend to take her back.<p>

"So," Olivia comments. "That's romance."

"No," Peter corrects with an all-encompassing gesture. "_This_ is romance."

She grins, truly and completely happy with this man and this date, and kisses him, a hand at his neck, at the beginnings of scruff on his face, tasting like salt. When they break apart, her forehead falls lightly to his.

"See?" He murmurs.

Olivia pulls his lips back to hers, and suddenly they're making out on the couch, him over her, hands greedily removing items of clothing.

Which is hardly different from any other night they've spent together.

* * *

><p>"Maybe you have the flu."<p>

They're both on the bathroom floor, her chin hovering just above the toilet bowl, too drained to move a single muscle. After throwing up what feels like all of her internal organs, aches roll through her body, radiating from behind her belly button. Peter hasn't flinched once in this past half-hour, holding her hair and rubbing her back (which he's still doing), comforting wordlessly. Until now.

"Maybe," she croaks, and then closes her eyes.

He helps her hobble slowly back to bed, arm around her waist. She's trying to regain herself, to not need to lean on him, but her body betrays her. She - more or less - collapses unto her mattress, pressing her sweaty face to the pillow. Peter lays down next to her, loosely wrapping an arm around her. He goes back to being silently supportive, not bothered by how close he is to someone who has some sort of stomach virus. For someone who almost died of a vague and rare illness as a child, he's got a surprisingly strong immune system, and hardly ever gets sick.

After a while, he thinks she might have fallen asleep, but then her eyes open. Well, maybe only one, because that's all he can see. The other's obscured by the pillow.

She doesn't say anything, and so he doesn't either. A few moments pass like this, and then she sits up, him following suit.

"I feel okay," she says, voice still raspy. "Better. It was probably just something I ate."

"Are you sure?"

She stretches. "I'm fine. You and I both know I'm no good at sitting around either way."

* * *

><p>All the day, the suspicions roll around her brain and distract her from work. Her and Peter have always been safe, but that doesn't necessarily mean there's a 0% chance of what she's thinking being real. Of her being pregnant. She knows it's silly, but the thoughts won't leave her head, good and bad ones. Because she could be. She might be. It's not an impossibility.<p>

When she gets home (alone, which is a rarity these days, but she told Peter that she was really tired and, after this morning, he didn't doubt it), she peels off her clothes and tugs on pajamas, cotton pants and a shirt of Peter's that she wore home one day, completely by accident, and just ended up keeping.

She lays down on her bed and stares up at the ceiling, an old pastime of hers. Insomnia is despicably loyal.

Fingers at her stomach, pressed lightly to the skin, she wonders. She knows this much: Peter wouldn't be a bad father. He would love his child - their child - wholeheartedly. The images come easily to her; Peter carrying his toddler on his shoulders, fascinating them with card tricks, tucking them in at night. She's worried, yes, but it's not him that worries her.

It's herself.

She turns on her side. _It's just a stomach bug. Nothing more._

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><p><em>AN: Again, I'm really sorry about the late update. You guys can respect when a girl needs time, though, yeah? I hope so._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!_

_- Ellie_


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: I know I have some excuse at the start of every chapter, but - yeah. Between falling in love with a straight girl who wasn't entirely certain she was straight before she screwed with my feelings (okay, okay, I'm being kinda harsh, but that was not a fun experience) and trying to fix my crappy grades, March was and April has been pretty hectic. Plus, a tiny bit of writer's block has set in. Which is always fun. Sigh._

_Also, I feel like I should mention that some upcoming chapters might seem snapshot-y. I mean, they take place during episodes we've all seen (for example - this next chapter takes place during 'Jacksonville'), and so I'm not going to add in every tiny detail. It's too tedious for everyone involved, because the scene wouldn't have changed that much. When we get into early season three territory, there'll probably some major changes because of baby Dunham-Bishop. I don't think I'm giving too much away by saying so, you guys are smart. :)_

_Disclaimer: Same as always._

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><p>It's been two days now, and Olivia's miserable sickness has yet to subside, the cause still evading her. Work has kept her too busy to consider any reason, though, as body after body - insides liquified, eyes big and round and bodies contorted with shock and with agony - is transported to the lab. Walter thought the case was wonderfully fascinating, but for Olivia and her sensitive stomach, it was an ordeal. A putrid stench pervaded the lab and she had to clench her fists tightly, had to bite down harshly on her bottom lip, <em>c'mon Olivia you're stronger than whatever the hell's making you sick. <em>The investigation itself proved no less difficult, dead end after dead end after dead end. When the woman responsible was finally (_finally_) caught, Olivia drove herself home dazedly and undressed with slow, heavy limbs, couldn't be bothered to wear anything but one of her boyfriend's T-shirts and underwear. Peter showed up at her doorstep without warning, not that she minded. They're now entangled, his heartbeat against her ear, lulling her to much-needed sleep.

But then her phone rings and she startles, pushing herself up, scrambling. Peter groans a curse, noticing her caller ID.

Broyles.

Her fingers stretch out and snatch the device, answering. "Dunham."

"There's been an event."

"Where?" She hastily stifles a yawn. Peter throws an arm over his eyes and she shoves him lightly, _Don't be so dramatic_, even though the last thing she wants to do is go to -

"New York City."

_Fantastic._

She holds back a sigh, says something about the Bishops (she doesn't know, honestly doesn't know, her brain stubbornly refusing to wake and fully partake in the conversation), and both her and Broyles hang up. She meets Peter's gaze and moves closer to him, folds her arms on his chest and rests her chin there. His fingers find their way underneath her (his) shirt and trace the contours of her lower back. Her eyes close; body starting to sink into unconsciousness, mind half-convinced that no one else but her and Peter even exist at all. His hand slows and slows and slows until his movements still completely, meaning he's most likely fallen asleep, and that spurs her into action (the universe expands to contain everyone else once more). She rubs her eyes and then leans forward to kiss Peter, who is, indeed, sleeping.

When he wakes, his hands instinctively fly to her waist, his entire body reacting to her. She smiles and breaks the kiss, hovering above him. "Broyles didn't call back and say it was a false alarm, did he?"

"Unfortunately not."

"At least I have the world's most effective alarm clock," he says, grinning at her.

She rolls her eyes.

* * *

><p>At this crime scene, the sights are immediately worse than anything she's seen in the last few days - possibly ever - and Olivia can't even begin to stop herself from vomiting. Peter quickly finds an empty evidence bag for her and she heaves, shoulder blades pressed together, throws up once, twice, three agonizing times. He gently rubs her back, silently comforting, concern obvious in his eyes. When she straightens, she catches her breath and manages an embarrassed, raspy, "I'm okay, Peter."<p>

The evidence bag's disposed of and they continue to survey the wreckage, his hand in hers. Usually doesn't waver in her _we have to stay professional at work _rule, but she figures one instance can't hurt, especially with such horrific sights surrounding them. The building's decimated, dust and debris and dim, grayish light, and the corpses all mangled in various ways, double the amount of heads or limbs. Not fully, though. Second foreheads burst from cheeks, deformed hands at the end of fourth arms. Some had another person entirely fused with them, as if put together by a scientist even more disturbed than Walter. It's revolting and disconcerting and the worst of the awful things that Olivia has seen since becoming part of fringe division.

Broyles said there were no survivors, but one man – his unnaturally broad shoulder skewered by a thick beam – opens his eyes and gasps for air. "We've got a survivor!" one of the NYC officers shouts, and in seconds he's being crowded around. The man's name is Ted Pratchet, someone tells Olivia, and a male paramedic kneeling by Mr. Pratchet says that they won't be able to cut him loose safely.

"Call my wife," Ted Pratchet begs, face red underneath the dirt. "Someone, please, call my wife. I just wanna hear her voice."

"Mr. Pratchet," Broyles says with a gentleness that Olivia often forgets her boss posses. "I'm Special Agent Broyles with the FBI." He gestures vaguely to Olivia. "This is Agent Dunham." He turns to her, says quietly _I'll call this in_ and disappears. She takes his place, hand on her knee to look Pratchet in the eye.

"Mr. Pratchet, it would help us a lot if you could describe what happened here."

She wants to vomit again, trying to avoid looking at the legs bursting from Mr. Pratchet's thigh, trying to just do her goddamn job, knowing that her inability to cope with a stupid little flu or whatever it is won't help anybody. Especially not the dying man before her.

"Tremors. Just like the other ones. Then a really big one that just kept getting worse." He grasps at the beam, as if trying to pull himself up, away from the pain. "I'm so thirsty."

"He can't drink anything," a female paramedic tells Olivia. "Maybe some ice, but no water."

"I'm on it," Peter says (ever prepared to help, Olivia's noticed). He passes Walter, who's scrutinizing a damaged painting that's just barely clinging to the wall.

"Mr. Pratchet, did anything unusual happen before the disaster? Maybe someone in the building who shouldn't have been here?" Olivia asks.

"No. Just the same things everyone saw. Yesterday, the dogs all started howling. Then all those little tremors. The microquakes."

"Did you hear about any tremors in New York?" Peter asks.

Broyles returns, pulls Olivia aside. "Ted Pratchet doesn't have a wife, and it appears he never did."

"Makes sense," she reasons. "Trauma from his injuries. He must be delirious."

But in the very back of her mind, the part of her that's been inclined to believe all of the insane things she's seen, the part of her that convinced her to get into the tank over a year ago, she knows that it cannot be that simple, because it never, ever is.

"I don't think so," Walter says. Of course. He takes the female paramedic's spot near Pratchet's shoulder and asks, "Sir, what year is it?"

"2010," Pratchet answers, strained, almost in tears.

"Good. Good." Walter tells him, and Olivia says his name warningly, which he ignores.

"And who is the president?"

"Mm-hmm. Good, good, good. Now, I'm sorry to do this – "

"Walter," Peter intervenes. "Hey, Walter. What's the point of this?"

Walter waves him off as well. "I'm sorry about this, but it is very important. On September the eleventh, when the terrorists struck, which buildings did they attack?"

"The Pentagon," Pratchet says, visibly growing weaker, not fighting as much.

"Uh-uh. And . . .," Walter probes.

"The White House," Pratchet tells him.

And then he's gone.

There's sadness over the loss of a human life, but there's relief, too. Nobody deserves to suffer that way, to have a fringe event happen to you personally, and no person looking on feels differently.

"I think I know what happened here," Walter says with the uttermost certainty.

Suddenly, something moves underneath Pratchet's shirt, like an animal curled up there and is just now waking, but that can't possibly be the case. Walter opens the shirt and again the need to throw up overpowers Olivia's iron will. Another evidence bag is shoved into her hands; Peter's eyes stay locked on the horror before him, the proverbial car wreck.

There's a face in Mr. Pratchet's stomach, _his face_, desperately gasping for air without (they assume) any respiratory system to speak of. It takes only seconds for the second Ted Pratchet to die, and then Walter calmly closes both pairs of eyelids.

"My theory was wrong," he says. "This wasn't a quantum event at all. We're standing in two buildings. One of which comes from the alternate universe."

* * *

><p><em>The universe seeks balance. We sent a car over there, so a car of equal mass came back. Now, a building from the other side appeared here. The laws of physics demand both sides of the equation balance. I calculate that a building from this side will be pulled over there, inhabitants and all within the next – just under 35 hours.<em>

The plane hasn't left the tarmac yet, but Olivia's about to reach for the air sickness bag. Irritated, she clenches her teeth. If she can't be a regular, perception-enhancing-drug-free person, then why can't she be healthy?

"_Okay, so how do we stop it?"_

"_That's the thing, Agent Dunham. We can't."_

"_Okay, then we need to evacuate the building. So how do we identify which building it's going to be?"_

"_Well, the one thing that Belly and I learned from our experience is that when objects from the other universe cross to our side, they have an energy. Someone once described it as a glimmer. I believe that in the moments before the event when the fabric of the two universes is rubbing together, that the building on this side will begin to take on that glimmer."_

"_So then we'd be able to see it?"_

"_Well, unfortunately, no. It's not visible to the human eye."_

"_Then how the hell are we going to find it, Walter?"_

"_We can't, Peter! But you can, Agent Dunham."_

"_How can I see it?"_

"_Because you saw it once before."_

As if sensing her distress, Peter slips his fingers through hers. She smiles at him halfheartedly, an expression that she knows he'll see right through, and he does. His thumb moves over her knuckles comfortingly.

"It's gonna be okay," he promises. "You're gonna get through this."

She kisses him, chaste, gently, loving him with the whole of her screwed up heart (mentions of the Cortexiphan trials always make her feel irreparable and small, like she's some broken thing that's less than human, though Walter would argue that she's more). _You're gonna get through this, you're gonna get through this, you're gonna get through this._ When he says it, she can't help but believe it.

She loves him. She holds the information close, holds it hostage, keeps it buried deep inside her heart. She loves him and she's going to get through this and everything will go back to normal. She and Peter will be able to get on with their life.

* * *

><p>Being at the Jacksonville Family Daycare Center do not help with her nausea. The mixture of welcoming brightness and abandoned dilapidation sends chills down her spine, knowing this place must've seemed so happy to her parents, must've seemed like the perfect place to send their daughters while they worked. Questions run through her mind and pile on top of each other – did Walter ever meet her mother? Does he remember her at all? Did the daycare have an actual facilitator? Did he or she know about Walter and William Bell were doing? Was Rachel part of the experiments?<p>

When that thought comes to mind, Olivia starts to feel suffocated, and breathing becomes outrageously difficult. She escapes outside and finds herself sitting on one of the swings in the long-empty playground. Her stomach clenches – a feeling she's been getting used to – and the idea from days ago pops into her head again. She's not entirely sure why – maybe because of the playground spread out before her – but it's return is a suckerpunch. A baby. In truth, she can't say that she wants one. Not because she doesn't like kids, but because she just cannot see herself giving her child the childhood that he or she deserves. Not having gone through what she did, being who she's become.

Peter sits down on the swing next to hers and she opens her eyes. "I have a freakishly good memory. I remember everything. But not this. There's just nothing that's familiar."

"Maybe that's a good thing," Peter says.

They're not looking at each other, but they don't have to be. They hear someone step out of the daycare center and then Walter's voice: "We're just about ready."

* * *

><p><em>AN: Don't know how much I like it, but - eh. It's here. Updates _will_ be coming quicker, I promise promise promise this time. I've got a schedule written down and everything. :)_

_Hope you enjoyed!_

_- Ellie_


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: [insert excuse here] [insert apology here]_

_Sigh. I'm really angry at myself for not updating, but, can't change the past, can you (I mean, unless_ you _can - that'd be pretty cool)_?_ At least I'm updating now._

* * *

><p>"Anything?"<p>

"Nothing," she answers, on edge. "Now what? Should we find some more kids to scare?"

Earlier, Walter conducted another experiment on her, had her hooked up to an intravenous drip of Cortexiphan. The goal was to reactivate the long-unused neural pathways the drug took within her brain as a girl, and to ultimately help her to see the glimmer of the other universe again.

_Nothing_ is glowing, or shimmering, or whatever the hell's supposed to be happening. Peter's standing nearby; his body language effectively (though unintentionally - Peter Bishop is not a man who wears his heart on his sleeve, so to speak) displays his concern, arms crossed, face dark and expression solemn. Olivia wears a similar look, but more openly furious, eyes - which are firmly locked on Walter's - absolutely blazing. The aforementioned scientist crumples the way he does, deflates into himself and the rough maze of his mind, accepting the blow he knows that he fully deserves.

"I have no idea," he says, quiet, not (verbally) acknowledging her jab. He breaks his gaze away from Olivia's and leaves the room, taking those long, hurried strides of his.

Olivia's frozen where she stands, fuming, and doesn't realize Peter has moved until his fingers curl around her arm, lips meeting her temple. He murmurs that everything will be okay and she glances up at him, the fight drained from both of them. Regardless, she scrapes up the effort to smile at him, though it's tiny and strained and sad. He kisses her, all tenderness and sweetness; when they break apart, his forehead touches hers, and her eyes close.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"For what?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know when this is over."

He kisses her forehead, runs his fingers down her arms, threads his fingers through hers. They're standing centimeters apart and she leans forward instinctively, head tucked under his chin. She can't say she believes everything will be okay, but right here, right now, she feels safe. Maybe that will just have to be enough.

"It's gonna be okay," he promises. "You're gonna be okay."

* * *

><p>Broyles calls, and it's a short conversation; <em>It's started<em>, he says, and she responds, _Okay_, and they both hang up.

* * *

><p>Moments later, she goes around and checks the gray, cobwebbed rooms for Walter, and finds him sitting before an old, minuscule television. On the screen, there's a toddler clutching her knees to her chest, the wall behind her blackened and charred, except for the area immediately around her. Olivia hears William Bell's distinct rasp come from the TV, and then Walter's voice, speaking to Bell and then reassuring the girl. He calls her Olive.<em><br>_

Olivia sits down next to Walter, perched carefully on the child-sized chair, but doesn't even think to stop staring and staring at the poor girl on the video, vulnerable and helpless. "That's me," she says softly, racking her brain for this moment, finding nothing, as expected. She barely calls the daycare at all, let alone the Cortexiphan trials, the only blank spot of her photographic memory. "What happened?"

He tells her that she started the fire with her innocent three-year-old mind because her first glimpse of the other universe, clearly, terrified her; he talks about today's attempt at returning that sight to her. She can't bear to hear that it should've worked, like she was at his command, her only purpose to wait for orders like Nick Lane, and she stands, walks toward the door. Her outrage returns full-force.

"You abused us, Walter," she says angrily. "Me and those other children."

"No, we - we were trying to help you," he tries, a flimsy as paper defense. "We were trying to make you more than you were."

"Is that what you were doing? Or were you searching for answers to questions that you shouldn't have been asking in the first place?"

"I was a different man then."

"I was a defenseless child!"

"Yes, you were. Yes, you were, Olivia," he says, voice suddenly thoughtful. He explains that

Cortexiphan's not triggered by just any heightened emotional response, but a specific one: fear. And she's not capable of fear the way she was nearly thirty years ago. You have to find your way back to that scared little girl, Walter concludes.

"And how do we do that?"

"I don't know."

* * *

><p>She's walking down one of the dusty and barely-lit hallways again, trying to put distance between her and Walter, between her and that tape. And, of course, as if by some middle finger from this universe, she stumbles upon the area that she scorched all that time ago. She steps into that same corner, the eye of the storm, and sinks to the floor, body curled, shoulders hunched. She feels small; not young, necessarily, but tiny. She was manufactured for this, she was made to save the world, but time has rendered her useless.<p>

(Maybe that's good. Maybe if her illness isn't _just_ an illness, this can be a very, very good thing, and this chemical can lay dormant, a vague memory of a childhood nightmare. _But on the other hand_, she thinks, _people are going to die unless you stop it_. Selflessness has always been an immutable part of her, a personality trait that's been with her for decades.)

Peter appears in the doorway suddenly, distracting her from the spinning dizziness of her thoughts. "Hey," he greets, not insensitively, and looks around the (mostly) burned room. "Is this a part of Walter's test?"

"No."

He picks up on her tone, the low melancholy of it, and softens. "Are you alright?"

The big-eyed look she gives him is answer enough; he sits down next to her, back against the wall, just like hers, and she drops her head to his shoulder. "I'm not afraid of anything anymore," she tells him quietly, staring ahead. He rests his cheek against her hair and the only sound is the lullaby of breathing, a comfort like white noise.

She almost wishes he'd start making promises - they'll go down to Cape Cod next weekend and spend a day at the ocean - they'll find shelter underneath a blanket tonight, curled up on her couch - they'll take Ella out to that frozen yogurt place that Rachel loves - they'll sleep wrapped around each other, no layers between them, skin to skin - she'll wake up tomorrow and find that today and yesterday were nightmares. They can be just dreams and she can stubbornly tell herself that for as long as she needs to.

He doesn't speak. He's enough, though, she decides. Peter's presence is enough.

* * *

><p>Returning to Boston has never felt like surrendering before, but today it does.<p>

* * *

><p>"It's too late. I failed. I failed, and I'm supposed to be the one who can stop things like this."<p>

She's too exhausted to even try to hide her emotions now; they're scrawled across her face, no-holds-barred, no need to keep composure anymore. It's not just worth it, not when people are going to die and she's absolutely useless. She forgot how deeply true helplessness cuts, the invasive way the feeling seizes the heart. She has been cracked open.

Peter steps away from the FBI's computers. "Olivia," he says as approaches her, voice soft but not condescending, low but not patronizing. He understands the wars inside her, at least somewhat, at least to a higher degree than anyone else. "You - I've never met _anyone_ who can do the things that you do."

He lifts his hand and gently cradles her cheek. He's leaning closer when she's struck by lightning. Not real lightning, of course. But abruptly she's consumed by fear - fear for the breaking universe and those who might die because of it, for that nagging possibility at the back of her mind. The idea of raising a child and having a family as the world crumbles around them, literally crumbles underneath her feet - it's not a future she's particularly looking forward to. Even a Cortexiphan subject cannot hold a whole universe together, not even all the Cortexiphan subjects as one, not even a mad scientist.

And she is _afraid_.

"Peter," she whispers, her soul vulnerable and bare before him. Maybe it's stupid to trust a con man so much, maybe it's exceptionally stupid when you consider what John Scott did, but there's something genuine about Peter. He's come a long way since they met, and he was angry and resentful and constantly kept one foot out the door. He's looking at her and the adoration (maybe love, very possibly love, but that's for another day) in his eyes is clear. "I'm scared."

"Don't be," he murmurs, though he doesn't know, has no idea what she's feeling. His thumb brushes her cheekbone.

"Peter," she repeats, but it's a realization this time. "I'm scared."

She kisses him and then bolts.

* * *

><p>She saves hundreds of people. It's a close call, yes, but no lives are lost. Tonight, nobody dies.<p>

* * *

><p>She doesn't see Peter until she shows up at the Bishops' house for a night in; driving there, she was grateful that he invited her over, found herself needing the company after what happened today.<p>

Now, there's fuzzy blackness rimming her vision, and she has to fight to keep from falling over. Her mind's reeling and her body aches for sleep, for the glimmer she's seeing now to be a hallucination. Peter stands before her, glowing around the edges, utterly oblivious. Olivia nearly collapses into him when he kisses her and Peter pulls back, the very corners of his lips tugged up.

"Tired?"

"Exhausted," she sighs, and manages the tiniest of reciprocal smiles, halfhearted at best, and he hugs her. It comes out of nowhere and she doesn't have time to hug him back, arms hanging limply at her sides.

"I'm so glad you're okay," he murmurs, very obviously relieved.

_Oh._

He was worried for her - of course she was. A large building phasing into another universe wasn't exactly the epitome of a safe situation, and _of course_ he was worried for her. She kisses his shoulder. "I'm fine."

He presses a kiss to her neck and she wraps her arms around his torso, closing her eyes to pretend there's no telltale glimmer radiating from him. To pretend nothing has changed, even though everything has.

* * *

><p><em>AN: I hope you enjoyed! I don't know how I like it (which really isn't anything new for me), but I am_ **sick** _of editing it. So. Here we are._

_ In two weeks, I'll have finished this past year of school _and _driver's ed, so the next chapters should be coming quicker (until, inevitably, school comes back - but let's not think about that)._

_- Ellie_


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I'm so sorry that this is so _ y_ late. I'm trash. Absolute trash. I hope you enjoy this chapter anyway, and leave me a review, even if it's just to reiterate how much of a trash monster I am.

Disclaimer: Same as always, buds.

* * *

><p>"You okay?"<p>

She can't see his face from where she is, her chest to his bare back, and he can't see hers, so he must feel how tense her body is against his. She suppresses a childish groan; she doesn't want to have this conversation tonight, or possibly ever. Her head's still spinning.

"Fine," she whispers, her breath on his skin, his heartbeat underneath her ear, slow and calm and relaxed.

"Olivia -"

"It's been a long day," she interrupts. "I'm tired. That's it."

His fingers slip through hers and she nuzzles closer, trying to seem sleepier (and therefore cuddlier) than she actually is.

He's quiet and then he's unconscious, snoring and blissful. Her mind's buzzing and running a thousand miles a minute, keeping her awake, which she'd really rather not be. She is exhausted - the eyelids-drooping, bones-aching, nauseous kind of exhausted - but she just can't stop the wave after wave of thoughts that won't allow her to rest. Stupid traitorous brain.

Her boyfriend's still glimmering; it's faint but it's visible.

Beneath her processing of the day's events, or lack thereof, there's something else _poking_ at the edges of her mind. Something small, something's that a faint spark, the beginning of a beginning. She focuses on it, this bright and blossoming something, and the tug of it becomes a _yank_. Almost like she should've known all along, or maybe did and shouldn't have ignored it.

She's pregnant.

She feels the baby - not physically, of course, more like part of her consciousness or soul or whatever has scooted over to make room for her child's. She has a suspicion that this might be a Cortexiphan thing, but at the moment she doesn't really care. At the moment, it's kind of wonderful. Magical.

Her fingers move to her stomach, roving over the pale skin. Her baby is a clump of cells, isn't even a son or daughter yet. Just Bishop and Dunham DNA that will eventually become a person.

She glances over at Peter, completely oblivious Peter, but can't stand keeping her attention away from her baby.

And it hits her; that metaphorical bucket of cold water pouring over her head. Cortexiphan, the glimmer, their occupation - her baby's doomed. Maybe actually _doomed_.

She can easily picture Peter's optimism, his excitement. Can picture him making preparations - buying clothes and stuffed animals, painting the nursery, reading every book about pregnancy and childcare he can get his hands on. Ignoring Walter's "advice." Talking to her belly when she's further along. All the Feel Good Movie stuff. He doesn't know. He doesn't know about . . . well, himself.

He has a glimmer. She's an experiment. That doesn't bode well for any child of theirs already.

She needs answers. As soon as possible.

Very carefully, she slips out of bed and tiptoes downstairs, across shadows and creaky floorboards. Walter, in a very Walter-esque fashion, is making something on the kitchen stove, wearing a bathrobe. Her palm creeps up and presses against her stomach, an instinctive need to protect her baby coursing through her. As if they need protecting from Walter, of all people.

She says his name softly, expecting him to startle, but he doesn't. He just turns and stares at her with sad eyes, seeming so . . . _old. _Walter has never looked particularly youthful since Olivia's known him, what with the gray curls and wrinkles, but there's always been an almost childlike energy about him. This is the first time she's ever seen him appear to be a man who knows too much and has witnessed too much. He's been a mad scientist for longer than she's been on this Earth, and this thing, this story, secret, this is what gets to him.

Maybe because it's so utterly personal.

"I need you to tell me why Peter was glimmering," she continues, guardedly, sitting down at the counter.

He nods and explains, getting increasingly teary as the whole story rolls out in front of her, between them. By the end, she finds herself quite conflicted. Physically, she feels sick, and her entire body aches. But emotionally - that's something else, something perplexing, complicated. Hours earlier, she was angry at him for the Cortexiphan trials. Now, she feels sympathetic for what he's lost, but . . . kidnapping Peter? Lying to him all these years? How is she _supposed _to feel about something like that?

"You can't imagine what it's like to lose a child." He says roughly, and she doesn't know if that's a viable excuse or not. Kind of doesn't want to know, never, ever wants to be a parent without a child.

She nods, only a small bit. "Can I, um . . . can I tell you something, Walter?"

"Of course, dear."

"I . . . I'm pregnant."

There is no doubt in her mind that that's not true.

There are huge differences between those two secrets, the main one probably being that Olivia's will have to come out eventually, while Walter's, if not for tonight, for Olivia, could've stayed hidden forever. But that's not the point, which is this: she can't have a family with Peter, can't raise a child with him, with this information hanging over her head. She's hoping that Walter will, somehow, be more inclined to tell Peter his origins with a baby on the way. Maybe it's a long shot - maybe a _very _long shot, considering it's been over two decades since this all went down - but she has to try.

He places his hand over both of hers, which are twined together on the countertop, and smiles earnestly. She tries to return it, but her expression's stiff and disingenuous. If he notices, he doesn't say anything.

She's going to throw up any second now, she knows she is.

Walter starts talking about OB/GYNs and doctor's appointments, rattles off every fun fact he knows about pregnancy, and she's only half-listening. She's too caught up in her thoughts. When the words "cervix" and "vagina" are mentioned, though, she cuts him off.

"It's getting late," she says. "I should go to bed."

"Oh, yes, of course. Goodnight, Olivia."

"Goodnight, Walter."

Her body feels heavy as she walks back up to Peter's room and climbs into bed with him again. He stirs; she runs a soothing hand through his hair as she curls up against him, feeling exhausted down to her core. She tries to focus on her baby's mind, the simplicity and the innocence and the slow, relaxing blur, and falls asleep.

She dreams of family. A sleeping baby against Peter's chest, his expression so awed as he holds the bundle of blankets, looks down at the tiny face. Olivia smiles and caresses her child's cheek with her index finger. She has never loved another person this much. Not ever.

Usually, in dreams, things turn nightmarish past this point. But nothing happens. Nothing changes. It's just her family, minus the secrets, regardless of where anyone's _from._ Peter's here now, with her and with his baby, looking the happiest that she's ever seen him.

She could stay here forever - she wants to - but, like it faithfully does for everyone else, morning comes anyway.

* * *

><p>AN: This one's kinda short, and doesn't have a particularly long time span, but I thought this whole bit deserved its own chapter. Anyways - again, I'm so so so sorry that this took so long to come into existence. I love all of you who've stuck with this since the beginning, or just saw it today and decided it was worthwhile. You're all beautiful and I'm trash. I'm so sorry.

Okay, okay, I'm done.

- Ellie


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Hi, guys! I am so, so, so incredibly sorry that this update is so unbelievably overdue. Considering the last update was in September, it almost goes without saying that school got in the way. Not only did junior year consume everything, this chapter also gave me a lot of trouble writing-wise. I'm still not completely satisfied with it, but I know that if I wait for it to be perfect, it'll probably be another couple months before this chapter gets published._

_Also! I was rereading the first five chapters of this fic and a few things here and there were bothering me, so if you know notice some slight changes later on in the week, that's just me disliking my own writing. Anyway. I also need to reevaluate the timeline, because after so many months, I don't remember; I know it made sense, but I can't remember how! So I might have to change some bits to make sure it's in line with the timeline because I'm a fic-timeline perfectionist._  
><em>Without further adieu, chapter six!<em>

* * *

><p>Her voice is slow and quiet. "Well, after my car accident, you said that I would experience things. I have."<p>

"You want a beer?"

She raises an eyebrow at Sam; he is one of the few people who know of her pregnancy (herself, obviously, Walter, who practically vibrates with suppressed excitement despite the tension growing in their small family unit, her doctor, who officially confirmed that she was pregnant with an ultrasound that filled her with a hollow happiness, Broyles, who thankfully didn't press her about the baby's father and allowed her to continue normally with her job until she was farther along, and, lastly, Sam). She didn't really tell him; he guessed, but she kind of expected he would.

"Right," he says, his voice as calm and smooth as ever, glancing up at her briefly. "Sorry, Dunham."

"Also," she continues, as he gets to his feet, evidently finished with his repair effort. "It's six in the morning."

They walk down the alley together. "When you've been up all night, time is just a matter of semantics." There's a short lull in their conversation. "So I suppose you're here to find out what happens next."

"Suppose I am."

Sam shrugs. "I can't tell ya. You have officially gone beyond my field of expertise. But I believe I can tell you why you're not sleeping, and it has nothing to do with your accident."

They stop by the front desk.

"You're a cop," he's saying. "And you must make a dozen decisions a day, many of them life and death. One of them you're not happy about. You think you did the wrong thing. I'm right, aren't I?"

"Yeah, but it wasn't the job." she admits, her voice softer than usual. "Not exactly. I, uh . . . I agreed to keep a secret."

"A secret?"

Her phone rings then, and a small huh sound escapes her, a breathy, half-hearted laugh. She answers, and, of course, it's Broyles, and another case has popped up.

"Okay, I'm on my way," she tells him, and then hangs up.

"Good thing you didn't take the beer," Sam jokes.

"Yeah. I'll see you later," she says with a listless chuckle, and starts to walk away, but he stops with her with a "Hey, Dunham?"

He inhales deeply, a preparation. "You're a good person. One of the few I know. If you agreed to keep this secret, I'm sure you had a good reason."

For a moment, she doesn't speak. She's choked up, emotional; compliments aren't something Olivia has received in spades, is used to receiving, and there's also the fact that it's a compliment coming from Sam Weiss, Nina Sharp's mysterious associate who has maybe, somehow, become her friend. "Yeah," she eventually says, and walks away.

* * *

><p>"Peter. Peter, it's me, he's in my house!"<p>

Panic has his heart in overdrive and his fingers tremble as he clutches his phone. He calls her name, over and over, can't make himself stop because she's not answering. His voice is strained, terrified for her, but he tries to pull himself together because he knows, in the space of his brain that still (somehow) registers logic, that he needs backup. He hangs up (_I'm sorry, Olivia, I'm so sorry_) and he calls Broyles and, miraculously, he doesn't crash the car as his words spill, frenetic, into the receiver.

He can't breathe. He can't breathe. He can hardly think.

Things have been . . . off lately. His father's acting strange, even by Walter standards, and Olivia has been quiet and distant. They won't talk to him, they insist that nothing's wrong, but the lie is plastic, insincere. There's something, something, underneath the surface, and he has no idea how to get to it.  
>But that doesn't matter right now. He's numbed with fear and Olivia might die today, might die, and he's useless if he's in his damn car, miles away, but he does finally reach his destination. He parks messily and stumbles out of his car, and when he spots two uniformed officers already rushing into her place, he follows hastily, instinctively.<p>

Olivia seems fine, disheveled but fine, and she's assuring the officers of it. There's a man - their killer, skin gray from his illness - crying on her floor, surrounded by what looks like Olivia's scattered case file. But she's fine, and that's all that matters.

* * *

><p>Olivia stands stoic and tense, her expression impassive, as the EMTs wheel James Heath away. Peter holds onto her hand, her palm sweaty against his from her struggle with Heath, but that's hardly at the forefront of his mind. Maybe, at this point, life-and-death situations shouldn't phase him, but keeps seeing Miranda Greene's face, overcome with sarcomas. Keeps hearing the doctor telling him, months ago, that Olivia won't wake up. He's starting to think that no matter how much he tries to bury that day, it will keep bobbing up from time to time, reminding him of the devastation that losing Olivia did and would cause him.<p>

* * *

><p>The last few cops filter out of Olivia's apartment, and then it's just them, a buzzing silence settling around him.<p>

"Peter," she says softly, turning her gaze him. Her unreadable, professional demeanor has given way to introspection and exhaustion, and he can't say he doesn't feel the same. "Thank you for coming."

He kisses her in response, and she breaks it abruptly, a funny look on her face. His brows furrow in confusion, and then she rushes to the sink, leaning over it to throw up. He follows her, rubs her back. After it's over, she lingers over the appliance, fingers gripping the edge, eyes closed. He slips his arms around her. Rests his chin on her shoulder.

"I've been known to have this effect on women," he quips, and she manages a weak chuckle, and goes quiet, seems to momentarily disappear into her own mind.

When she returns, she shrugs him off. "You're heavy."

"I'm offended, Agent Dunham," he says, feigning hurt, as she turns to face him. Her fingers find the line of his jaw, his cheek.

"You'll survive. Probably," she tells him, smiles, a bit warily. He leans closer and she moves her palm to cover his lips.

"Might want to wait until I brush my teeth or something."

"Oh. Yeah." He moves closer anyway, but only to brush his nose against hers. She can't help but let her smile brighten; there's a magnetism between them and she forgets it sometimes, until he looks at her like that, with big, lovestruck eyes.

His hands are on her hips now, and she steps closer to him, wraps her arms around his neck as his encircle her, hold her close to him. He rubs her back, and usually she hates when his fingers burrow into her skin the way they always do, like he's digging into her muscle to press on her bone, but, at that moment, it's comforting. Her smile has slipped from her face; it's not like she's never been emotional or upset or tired after a case, but this is so much different. She's pregnant; for one, there's the more than trivial impact of her unpredictable hormones on her mental state, and also the fact that there's a life inside her, dependent, in danger whenever she is.

He cradles the back of her head, holds her like she's made of glass, made of paper and tape. "I'm so glad you're okay," he whispers, raw, visceral.  
>This is ultimate, harsh reality of their job; any case, even the tamest of the ones that pass over the desks of their division, has the potential to become deadly. To take her life, or Peter's, or Walter's or Astrid's (or, and this thought slams into her with such a force that part of her crumbles on the spot, her unborn child's).<p>

She kisses his shoulder, and all the secrets and evasion and lies-by-omission dig their long nails into the hollow space made by her collarbones, and she can feel the sting in her chest, can almost feel the blood seeping from a wound that's not really there, hot on her skin and wet on her shirt. When she meets Peter's eyes, and sees the shining, oblivious love in them, sees her own lackluster expression mirrored back to her, the nails just shift closer to her ribcage, and nausea rolls around in her stomach (though, in all honestly, she's always feeling sick for some reason or another; it's become a fairly reliable constant).

Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, she wonders about this situation she has fallen into. Wonders what would happen if she tells him about the baby, or about where he came from, or both. Wonders what would be happening if she hadn't gone to the Bishop house that night, and had never seen Peter's glimmer. If they could be in the dark, together, and move forward with their lives, and be parents, be the stable, happy presence that neither of them had in their own childhoods. Be _normal._

* * *

><p>Keeping two secrets from Peter is taxing for both her and Walter. There's a tension surrounding the three of them, an awkwardness that worms it way into all of their interactions. And Peter notices - he's a smart man, was a con artist, made money off knowing how people work - and she sees his confusion and the truth's always on the tip of her tongue, but Walter's isn't hers to tell, and she can't tell him about her pregnancy until he knows about himself, so she waits. And waits. And part of her is so mad at Walter for putting off talking to Peter; she appreciates that he's scared, that so much could change, but Olivia can hardly stand the suffocating, uncomfortable atmosphere.<p>

* * *

><p>For the most part, Peter keeps as quiet as Walter and Olivia, not knowing the subject but knowing it's sensitive. But also knows that something is plaguing Olivia, that she's suffering silently the way she does, and maybe she should've known that seeing her hurting and keeping it to herself would push him to finally ask about it at some point. She kind of foolishly hoped it wouldn't, but he does, the night before he finds out.<p>

They're in her bed, their clothes scattered around it; she's laying on her back, staring up at the ceiling, and he's on his side, an arm throw around her.

"You're thinking," he says.

"I've heard people tend to do that," she deadpans.

"You know what I mean."

She shrugs. "I'm thinking that of all the disgusting things we've seen, deformed shapeshifters are probably somewhere in the top ten."

He laughs and kisses her shoulder. "True."

Her hand finds his cheek, fingers against the beginnings of stubble. "Let's try and get some sleep."

As if on cue, Peter yawns, and sleep comes easily to him, while she finds it restlessly.

* * *

><p>After the incident on the bridge, Peter is unconscious overnight. Both Olivia and Walter stay at his bedside at the hospital, out of both worry and love, but she's alone when he wakes, Walter ambled down to the cafeteria for something to eat just ten minutes before. Peter groans, and she squeezes his hand and calls his name softly, letting him know that she's here.<p>

His eyes open, and she watches him focus on her, relieved that he's okay even though the doctor was completely certain he would be. Nothing is ever truly certain in Fringe Division, she's learned. "Welcome back," she says, running her thumb gently over his, and he blinks, looks at her groggily.

She sits by his hip, and he smiles at her in a bleary, sincere way that's kind of adorable. "How long was I out?" he asks.

"Uh, about a day and a half." Her voice is gentler than usual, which probably annoys him, as he's not one to like being coddled, but hospitals unnerve her deep in her soul. She grabs a cup of ice cubes from the table next to his bed and offers it to him with a soft "Here." He takes one and pops it into his mouth.

He groans, rotates his shoulder to alleviate some of the stiffness of being solitary for over twenty-four hours. She releases his hand to run her fingers through his hair and he clears his throat.

"The doctor said you'd be fine, but Walter was worried," she says softly, and he smiles thinly, shakes his head a little.

"I'm fine." Clears his throat again. "Is he here?"

"Yeah. He wouldn't leave." _Neither would I_, she thinks, but doesn't say it. "He'll wanna know that you're up."

She stands, kisses his temple, and as she walks away, he stops her. "Olivia? I'd like to speak to him alone, if that's okay."

"Sure."

As she leaves, she cannot help but feel nervousness in the pit of her stomach, and tries to pass it off as that effect that hospitals have had on her since she was a little girl at the emergency room with her mother and Rachel. But she saw it in the reserved darkness in his eyes, heard it in his carefully controlled tone - he knows. He knows what Walter, all these years, has been hiding from him.

He knows he's from the other universe.

* * *

><p>He does think of Olivia before he leaves, and it's like a dark cloud passing over. They've been so happy, he's been so happy, but relationships, despite common beliefs, don't change people, and Peter spent the majority of his adult life running. Running from Walter and his twisted paranoia, from his mother and his mother's death, running and conning and moving from job to job, country to country.<p>

He loves Olivia - he hasn't said it, but he knows it, knows it when he looks at her and when she smiles and when she laughs - but she must've known, and he won't be able look at her and won't be able to look at Walter with such a heavy thing on his chest.

He just can't.

* * *

><p>"Agent Dunham?"<p>

She feels weak, almost light-headed, which is embarrassing to her. She doesn't react like this, not usually.

"Agent Dunham?" the doctor repeats. "Mr. Bishop checked himself out a little over three hours ago."

"Sorry," she finally responds. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>"Walter, Peter checked himself out of the hospital three hours ago. He's not at the lab, and he's not answering his phone. He's gone."<p>

* * *

><p><em>AN: Again, I'm so sorry for the ridiculously late update! I promise the next one won't take so long. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!_


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